"You don't know—the story?"
Virginia shook her head.
"When you know it, you will turn away from us, as every one else has."
"No—no! Be sure I will not."
"How can I be sure? Ah, almost all the solace of hope has gone now! You will hear the horrible details, and—that will be the end."
Virginia caught the slender, cold fingers that twisted together nervously. "Tell me yourself," she cried. "Tell me all—you, his sister. Then you will see how I shall bear it, and whether I shall fail you."
"I will!"
Madeleine Dalahaide's breath came unevenly. For a moment she could not speak. Then she began, her eyes not on Virginia, but on the portrait.
"There was a woman," she said in a low, choked voice. "She was an actress. Max was in love with her, or thought he was. She was handsome. I have seen her on the stage. Other men besides Max were mad about her. But she seemed to care for him. He wanted to marry her, and when father and mother didn't approve, he quarrelled with them, for the first time in his life. We had always been so happy before that—so united. Everything began to go wrong with my poor Max then. He played cards at his club, and lost a great deal of money. And as if that were not enough, father's losses came. He could do nothing for Max. Besides, the woman Max loved made him jealous. He suspected that she cared for somebody else. He told me that the last time I saw him before—the terrible thing happened. But he didn't tell the man's name. Perhaps he didn't know him. We had a long talk, for I had been his friend and confidante through all. I didn't want him to marry the woman; but even that would be better than to have him miserable, as he said he must be without her. And it was the next night that the murder was committed. But it was not known until the day after."
"Was it—the man of whom he was jealous who was murdered?"